Hi Doc. I'm back.
Already? Listen EE, you've been coming here more than two years. I believe it's time to seek help elsewhere.
You want me to start seeing someone else?
No, idiot, I want me to start seeing someone else. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in a year. Our last hour was so disturbing I've had nightmares, nervous breakdowns . . . I even tried to commit suicide by sitting through a Brady Bunch marathon on TV Land.
I see. How did that make you feel?
Like I was that sour vomit-like fluid that sometimes rises into your throat and then goes back down. I tell you . . . Mind if I take the couch?
Help yourself, Doc.
Thanks. Sitting in that chair all day listening to patients gripe and grouse is like sitting in an airplane seat for eight hours with a whining two-year-old in the next seat. In coach. At least the couch is comfortable.
Where to begin? My father spent my childhood in prison for cannibalism.
Good, good, I'm hooked already. Your mother?
A White House hooker. Three administrations. She was never around; I was raised by werewolves. My first boyfriend was my seventh grade math teacher. When I-- What are you reading?
Slush. Thought I'd kill two birds.
Asshole. I was about to have a breakthrough session.
Yes, but I was about to have a gag session. Is your father still around? Memoir of a Cannibal has a nice ring to it.
Same time next year?